


traces of night

by ohfiitz



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Night-Night gun, Pre-Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:36:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohfiitz/pseuds/ohfiitz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Simmons has her fears and Fitz does what he can to keep them at bay. Also an ode to the Night-Night gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	traces of night

_“Jemma, you told me it was over. Why did you lie to me?”_

_“I didn’t lie, Fitz. It’s true. I’m not afraid. Not anymore.”_

 

It came as a shock, her field assessment results. Sure, they were both far from physically competent, but Jemma Simmons was evidently more fit, more prepared and, most importantly, more willing to go into the field than he was. Which is why when he found out that she failed field assessments, Leo Fitz was surprised (okay, maybe secretly relieved, but mostly surprised). He failed, too, though he already saw it coming, considering that he managed to get knocked out _literally_ five seconds into the Physical Combat part and ended up building a grenade when he was only supposed to label weapons for Arms and Weaponry. Yeah, that happened. Jemma, on the other hand, did pretty well in all of those things. She even survived espionage, which was her weakest area.

And then he understood.

She failed in marksmanship. They did all the tests together, except marksmanship. S.H.I.E.L.D was using guns Fitz himself created, so they had to give him a “special test” which meant he had to use low-quality guns he wasn’t familiar with. (Which was stupid, really. Who designs those things?). She told him she would do _just fine, Fitz, I’m not a five-year-old and I can damn well pass a bloody test on my own, thankyouverymuch._ But he should have known she was lying, should’ve seen it from the slightest twitch in her eyes when she gave him her signature death glare.

In their almost five years of friendship, Fitz could count the times something scared Simmons. It was, in fact, one of the million things he loved about her. She was brave. She was fearless. Blood and filth and disease and objects of unknown origin and level 8 agents can come and go and nothing will daunt Jemma Simmons. Except for one thing: guns.

Jemma Simmons had a fear of guns.

 

  _“Okay, fine. I freaked out, okay? That’s all. No big deal. ”_

_“Did you even shoot the gun?”_

_“Er…”_

_“Did you even hold the gun?”_

_“…”_

_“The nightmares, Jemma, do you still have them?”_

_“…”_

 

When Simmons was five, her older brother died. Shot point-blank in the chest. Both of her parents were scientists and had basic medical training, but even that wasn’t enough to save him. For years, little Jemma Simmons would retreat to her own little world, trying to keep the tears and the screams and the horrible, _horrible_ nightmares to herself. In the dreams, she would see him, bleeding, with eyes pleading for her to _Jemma please, just save him._ For years, she would bring than memory with her, the split-second image of her bleeding brother, tucked in all her pockets, stitched to the inside of all her seams.

That was, in fact, the moment she knew she wanted to be a doctor. Ironically, it was also a gun that led her to Fitz, her best friend. (It was her first day in the Academy— combat training, third period— and a scrawny, curly-haired boy appeared out of nowhere to tell her that she was “going to kill everyone in the vicinity, with the way you’re holding that poor pistol”, bloody Scottish accent and all.)

 

_“Jemma, look at me. You have to do something about this. You were the one who wanted to go into the fi– ”_

_“Yes, and I’m going to do it without killing anyone, okay?”_

_“You don’t have to kill anyone. It’s just a gun!”_

_“Easy for you to say that, Fitz, you make these… deadly… monsters yourself!”_

 

It hurt. The way she said it with much disdain. As if he was killing people with his creations. As if _he_ created the gun that killed her brother.

Simmons was the embodiment of order. She was a biochemist. She worked with all forms and shapes of life. She loved life; her whole existence was wrapped around it, and she refuses to use anything that takes it away.

Fitz, on the other hand, was chaos. He makes weapons. Hell, the very gun she refused to use— the one she disdains with so much passion— was one of the “babies” he submitted for testing.

Sometimes it pains him to think of how different they were.

But she was Jemma, and there was no way he would leave her side.

And if she was going to throw herself into danger, he had to find a way to protect her. Jemma would go into the field, that much was certain. It was her dream to see the world, and nothing—not even failed field assessments—can ever come between Jemma Simmons and her dreams. But field work also comes with danger, and Fitz was sure that time will come and she would need a non-lethal weapon to protect herself with. At some point. One way or another. Eventually.

 

* * *

 

That night, as he lay in bed unable to sleep, Fitz drew in his mind the earliest sketches of a weapon that could take someone down without killing them. Maybe sort of like a sedative? But in the form of a gun? Yeah, that would probably work. The weapon would, of course, use bullets. Non-lethal ones. He already knew how to increase bullets’ stopping power, he had been working at that for months, but he would have to come up with a way to make them break up under the subcutaneous tissue and release some… tranquilizing… chemical… thing (Simmons was definitely better at chemistry). Maybe dendrotoxin? Yes, dendrotoxin sounds like a good idea. Sounds like something Simmons would be amenable to, as well.

It would just be like putting them to sleep, he’d explain to her. Like tucking them to bed. Like what she always does. Like what they do to each other, when he misses home, or when her nightmares return.

 _No killing involved, Jemma_ , he’d tell her. He hoped it works. And it better work, because there was no way he would let her go into the field without any means of protection.   

 _Jemma_. As traces of night began to shift from his eyes and into his dreams, he thought of her. She was light and summer and big bright balls of sunshine, and he would do everything to keep her that way. Away from the nightmares and the guns and all the darkness being a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent inevitably entails. Drifting slowly into slumber, peacefully, for once, a soft murmur escapes from his lips—thoughtless and easy and effortless, like breathing:

_Night-night, Jemma._

**Author's Note:**

> I was really upset when they renamed the Night-Night gun. Hence, this. It's my first fic for AOS, so comments and constructive criticisms are very much appreciated!


End file.
